


Don't Ever Change

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sam Winchester Knows, Shirtless Castiel, Tattooed Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14206200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: Dean Winchester and Castiel are not dating.They’re really not. They just get hungry sometimes - who doesn’t work up an appetite during a hunt? And when they’re both hungry, it’s only reasonable to make a stop. But that’s all it ever is - just a stop on the road, nothing more.Until one evening, when everything seems to shift; they’re booked in to have dinner at a fancy restaurant together, Dean finds out that Sam’s assumed they’re dating the whole time, and Castiel is walking around shirtless. After a night like that, nothing could ever be the same.





	Don't Ever Change

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the Dean/Cas Mid-Winter 5k challenge!! My wonderful partner is the artist [purgatory-jar](http://purgatory-jar.tumblr.com). Thank you so much for creating such beautiful, beautiful art, honey!! It was SO FREAKING FANTASTIC to do this together. I am holding the handrail. <3

Late on a Thursday night in January, Dean and Castiel were driving through the dark in a car made of iron and third chances.

The sky above them was vast, gaping; it was cloudless, the grizzled old galaxies shining out clearly. There wasn’t a single cloud. The moon was half-closed, softly silver, the lazy crescent eye of a nearly-sleeping god; the trees at the side of the road were shadowed monoliths, and the trickster wind made panpipes of their tangled branches.

Inside the car, Johnny Cash was on the radio.

The air smelled faintly of petrol and mostly of musty seats. There were two empty packets of cookies by Dean’s feet, and their red wrappers crinkled occasionally.

“You tired?” Dean said.

Castiel met his eyes, expression dry. “Very,” he said. “I think I’ll just have a sleep, right now.”

“Alright, alright. You know what I mean,” Dean said. “You tired of the road?”

There was a pause that was slightly too long. Dean had the feeling that Castiel was taking his question on multiple levels; he’d really only meant it on the one. His bones were itching from seven straight hours of driving, and he wanted to stretch his legs.

“Yes,” Castiel said, and sure enough his tone was thick with meaning that Dean didn’t even know where to begin deciphering.

“Cool,” he said, answering on the surface, feeling like a boatman on an ocean as deep as the sky. “We’ll make a stop.”

*

It took them only a few minutes to find a likely looking place. _Dale’s Grill_ was small, and boring; all sixties Americana, vinyl seats and milkshakes and burgers, a big jukebox in the corner. Dean and Castiel slid into a booth.

“Bet you can’t order without saying _I,_ ” Dean said.

Castiel frowned, and wordlessly pointed to one of his eyes, expression asking a question.

“No.” Dean pointed to his chest. “I.”

Castiel’s face cleared. When the waitress arrived - a woman with lank hair and wide, cheerful eyes - he offered her a serious look.

“My request is for a cheeseburger,” he said. “As it comes. The fries as a side would also be good. Thank you.”

The waitress noted down his order, eyeing the pair of them under her lashes. Dean smiled kindly at her, and said simply,

“Same for me.”

Once she’d walked away, Castiel glanced at him narrowly.

“Cheat,” he said.

“Me? Never.”

“You deliberately made me go first,” Castiel said, with just a hint of accusation undercut with humour in his voice. Dean sat back, stretching his arm out over the back of the booth.

“Nah,” he said. “You’re reading too much into things. Like usual.”

“That is not my typical behaviour.”

Dean snorted. “Sure, sure.”

Neither of them had said _I,_ yet, and Dean didn’t even bother to wonder whether Castiel had noticed. Castiel always noticed.

The jukebox in the corner of the diner was playing something schmaltzy. Dean looked carefully around the place for a few moments, before letting his eyes come to rest on Castiel. The angel was unselfconscious, but he somehow wasn’t sitting in quite the usual way in the booth - more still than he should be. His eyes, the blue in them catching the neon light from above their table, were softly focused. It was a couple of seconds before Dean realised that Castiel was looking right back at him.

“Hey,” he said, to say something.

“Hello,” Castiel said, and then seemed to feel something was missing; a half-second offbeat, he added, “Dean.”

They shared a smile, of sorts. It felt good to be here, Dean thought. Easy, relaxed. Kind of weirdly significant, in a way that a lot of the time he spent with Castiel seemed to be. Whenever they were just hanging out like this, the two of them, it was like there was this energy between them. Something he couldn’t put into words.

Dean didn’t want to overanalyse it. It was just lucky that he and Castiel were such good friends.

“Two burgers, two fry sides, and I brought y’all some water for the table. Anything else?” the waitress said, returning with a smile, her arms stacked with plates that she slid smoothly and expertly onto the table; he caught her eye and smiled.

“Could, uh, would it be possible to get a beer,” he said. “Anything you got that’s cold?”

“Sure thing,” the waitress said, and disappeared once again.

The burger was delicious. Dean’s first bite had him melting; he looked over to watch Castiel chewing slowly, his face full of appreciation. They met each other’s eyes, and shared a nod of understanding. They ate together, mostly in companionable silence. Faint strains of something smooth and slow eased out of the jukebox.

Dean finished his burger first; he guessed that since he ate for necessity and Castiel did it more for pleasure, he tended to eat faster. That was angel powers for you: they took all the hunger out of life.

Once again, Dean found himself watching Castiel, who was too focused on his burger to notice. Cas’ hair was messy, looking darker and more striking in the mood lighting of the diner. Shadows played over his face, gentle as spiderwebs. Dean had a sudden, strange urge to reach out and try to brush them away with the back of his hand; he clenched his fingers into a soft fist, and kept them to himself.

A little imagining began painting itself out in his mind; his hand, on Cas’ cheek.

On Cas’ cheek.

On Cas’ cheek.

It was a strangely satisfying image - one that Dean played through a couple of times more, just for the hell of it, even though it made him feel strangely guilty.

“You done?” he said, blinking himself out of his reverie when he saw that Castiel was finished eating - a relief, a distraction.

“Done,” Castiel said.

“Awesome,” Dean said. “Let’s pay.”

When they swung themselves back into the car, Dean offered Cas another half-smile. When Cas returned it, Dean tried to ignore the strange flip and roll in his chest.

“Good stop,” he said. Neither of them had said _I,_ yet.

***

A week later, down a dingy little street in a town two hundred miles away, Dean and Castiel leaned back, side by side, against the wall of an abandoned gas station - and took a moment to breathe.

“Not bad,” Dean said, between heavy huffs. His chest was still heaving, fast and steady, after the exertion of the hunt; the night air was cool in his lungs. He wiped at his face, and realised that he was covered in dark, sticky blood. When he looked across at Cas, he grinned.

“You got a little something,” he said, and then gestured to his whole face, “here.” Cas was also liberally splattered over with oil-like remnants of monster.

He smirked at Dean’s words, just the corner of his mouth turning up. His hair was going in all directions; he’d used just a touch of his angelic grace to intimidate the creature they’d been hunting, and he looked as though some of the lightning was still crackling in his eyes.

“You too,” he replied, glancing over Dean’s face - slowly, and Dean’s heart did a double-beat - before blinking and looking away. He leaned his head back against the wall, peering up at the flat slice of sky they could see between the gas station and the roof of the next building. “That was good.”

“One less nasty in the world,” Dean agreed, following Cas’ gaze. The wall of the building felt solid against the back of his head, steadying after the rush of adrenaline.

“Did it hurt you?”

“Nothing too bad,” Dean said; immediately, he sensed Cas’ glower in his peripheral vision. “Come on, man, it’s a hunt. You’re supposed to be a little broke up after.”

“But if you just let me…” Castiel had lifted himself away from the wall, and was reaching out his hand towards Dean’s face. There was something about the gesture - some promise of softness - that made Dean swallow and see danger.

“Nah, man. You’re good. Let me just sink into it for a bit.” He smiled at Cas, who stared at him for a drawn-out moment before lowering his hand, and looking away. The expression on his face was unreadable. Dean imagined he was silently cursing human stupidity. “That’s not kind,” he said. Cas started - and then, when he saw Dean’s smirk, he rolled his eyes.

He looked appreciative, though, against his own will.

Dean swept his eyes over the ground nearby, checking for any leftover signs of the supernatural. Nothing leapt out to him; they’d done a clean job, it looked like. No need for any burnings or buryings. He glanced back to Castiel, and saw that he was on his phone.

“Texting your girl?” he said, not really sure why he’d decided to ask. Cas only shot him a dour look and went back to typing at the keypad.

Dean scowled to himself. After a moment, he lifted a hand to press at the taut skin of his cheek. He could feel it starting to swell, just above the cheekbone on the right-hand side.

“Gonna have a hell of a shiner,” he remarked.

Cas did not look up.

Dean stretched out, and groaned. “Think a couple of my ribs took a beating,” he added.

Cas put his phone away in his pocket, and looked Dean over. The expressions that passed between them spoke a couple of volumes, before Cas said,

“That was a conversation with Sam. He knows that we were successful.”

“Oh,” said Dean. “Right. Good.”

“He wants you to know that he’s finished all the soup you made, and his leg still isn’t not-broken, so he wants a refund.”

Dean snorted. “Like he ever paid me to do a damn thing.” He could feel a little shame welling up inside him at the exchange that had just passed between them; Dean felt that somehow, he should have known better than to ask about Cas’ romantic life - even teasingly. It just seemed to shift something closer to the surface inside him, something that needed to stay buried and wordless.

He sighed, and tried not to think about it too hard.

“Hey,” he said, catching sight of a familiar yellowy glow; it was radiating from above them, a neon sign displaying the golden arches. “You want some food? We could make a stop on the way back to the car.”

Cas followed his eyeline; his eyebrows raised fractionally, and then he turned back to Dean.

“They’ll never let us in, looking like this,” he said. He reached out his hand and pressed it to Dean’s temple. For a single second - one that seemed to draw out, to last a lifetime - Castiel had his fingertips pressed against the side of Dean’s face, and his wrist with its faint purple and blue flower of veins was close enough to Dean’s lips that he could have -

The second ended. Dean cleared his throat.

“Pretty now?” he said, holding his arms out and opening himself up to inspection sarcastically.

As they began to walk towards McDonalds, he realised that Cas had left all his injuries intact. His face must be starting to look purple, and his side was aching. He sighed, and put his hand on Cas’ arm. He didn’t like being healed, but he didn’t much feel like eating his burger with a couple of fractured ribs, either.

“Just do it,” he said, weary. “OK? Just do it.”

Cas stared at him for a moment too long, before he finally got it. More swift and businesslike than before, he used his grace to ease the swelling on Dean’s face and the creaking of his ribs. Dean submitted to the quick ministration, refusing to wonder what Cas thought he’d been asking for, before he’d realised it was the healing. He could have sworn that Cas’ eyes had dipped towards his lips.

“Not too long,” Dean warned, as they crossed the road and went into the McDonalds. “It’s just a stop. Only one coffee this time.”

“The taste is good,” Cas protested. Dean opened the door for him.

Neither of them had said _I,_ yet. They weren’t talking about it.

***

A week later, at a beat-up old motel one hundred and thirty miles away, Dean was sitting perched on the end of his bed. He stared down at his phone; he’d just rung off, and now was trying to process what exactly he’d just done. There was the sound of water running, next door; Cas was taking a shower.

A text came through from Sam, with a loud _ping_ \- Dean flinched, and then rolled his eyes.

_You guys on your way back now?_

Dean swallowed.

_Gonna stay the night here. Booked us a table for dinner and all._

Even as he typed it out, he asked himself why he was telling his brother about the dinner. There was sure to be teasing, or at the very least some confusion. He could imagine the way that Sam’s face would look reading the message, just as if Sam was in the room with him. In many ways, Dean could feel himself hoping for Sam to laugh at him - to tell him that this was stupid, out of character, weird. That he should just get in the damn car and drive home.

 _Nice,_ Sam texted back.

Dean stared at his phone incredulously. Nice? That was it? Wasn’t there going to be any mockery, any questions? He waited for a follow-up text to pull out the rug - _just kidding, what the hell do you mean, booked a table for dinner -_ but it didn’t come.

 _It’s a fancy place,_ Dean texted out recklessly, abandoning all pretence and openly inviting criticism. _Only the best for Cas._

He waited for the response.

 _You guys have fun,_ it read. _Also on your way back tomorrow can you get some milk. I’m all out and I never needed calcium more than I do right now._

Dean sat absolutely still. “You guys have fun”? Was that meant sarcastically? It had to be. But it was unusual for Sam to just roll with a joke like that over text - he was usually more of a “what the hell are you talking about” kind of guy when Dean said something weird. And if Sam _did_ go with the joke, he wouldn’t typically just cut to shopping requests right after. He’d wait for Dean to laugh.

Dean knew Sam’s text style, and this… this sounded like him just casually wishing them a good evening.

After Dean had said “only the best for Cas”.

Which was kind of… well, it sounded like - it sounded like -

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Dean dropped his phone onto the bed and stood up, as though it were poisonous or incriminating or both. He turned a decidedly guilty face towards Cas - and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Normally, Cas came out of the shower fully clothed. With his grace, it was easy for him to put his clothes on in a moment - so of course, Dean never saw anything more risqué than the soft skin just below his jaw, or the smoothness of his wrist when his coat sleeve shifted.

Tonight, though, Cas seemed to have other ideas. He was leaning around the door, a towel slung around his hips, his skin dripping water and flushed with the heat of the shower. That would have been enough for Dean to deal with on its own - but down Cas’ bare arms, across his chest, over his shoulders, there were _tattoos_.

“Dean,” he said. “Do you prefer orange or rose shower gel? You can have your favourite.”

Dean _gaped_ at him.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the tattoos. On Cas’ right arm, there was a complex interlocking design, like a labyrinth. The lines of it were thin and delicate - it was beautiful, subtle. Through it, as though the maze were a sheath, there was a dagger with an inscription on the blade.

On his left arm, wrapped around his bicep, was a single thick, black line. Through the line, mirroring the dagger’s placement on the right, there was an inverted rose with a long stem. There was something written on its petals that Dean couldn’t make out, in a loose script.

And across Cas’ body, roots at his right hip and branches spreading out over his stomach and up to his chest, there was a tree. It was lined thickly, with watercolour dashes of purple and blue. Behind it, a crescent moon cupped the place where Cas’ heart was beating beneath the skin. The moon, too, had words written within it, curving up along the inner side. A trio of birds flew on the left side of his torso - doves, Dean thought.

It was beautiful. _He_ was - was beautiful. Dean clenched his fists, overwhelmed by how much he wanted to _touch._

“Dean?”

“You’re - you - you’ve got -” Dean tried to form sentences, and managed a loose incoherence. Cas’ eyebrows lifted, and then he looked down at his chest.

“Oh,” he said. He kept looking down at them, as though he’d forgotten they were there, and was as surprised to see them as Dean was. “Yes.”

Dean’s pulse was pounding. He could feel it, all through his body.

“They’re - you -” Dean swallowed, and tried to clear his mind. All he could think about was pressing his hand to the moon, or running his fingertips across the armband of black, or tracing the branches of the tree. “Can - is it allowed - to look at them?” The question was out before he could curb himself. He’d only just managed to stop his mouth asking to kiss the doves, kiss the moon, kiss the roots of the tree.

He was windswept by his own sudden desire, shaken.

Cas frowned, and finally looked back up at Dean. He looked caught out, secretive - defensive, even - but he swallowed, and nodded. “If you want,” he said, like he couldn’t understand why Dean would.

Dean walked across the room. He was hyperaware of Cas’ body and how close he could let himself be to it, and how tall Cas was and how strong his arms were, and how the water was still sliding over his tanned skin in slow, easy drips. He stopped a couple of paces away - a safe distance, he figured - and stared.

The labyrinth was even more intricate, seen up close. Dean guessed it must have taken hours and hours to complete. The dagger inside it was perfectly shaped, sharp as a needle at its point. Narrowing his eyes, Dean picked out the inscription - _I will defend._ His gaze shifted over to Cas’ left arm, and the rose. On its petals was a matching legend: _I will redeem._

When he looked up to Cas, expression asking a question, Cas sighed. The action shifted the moon, made the birds’ wings stretch.

“Defence,” he said, tapping his left index finger to his right arm, “of that which is loved. Redemption,” he touched his right finger to the rose petal, “that must be sought. For mistakes that were made.”

“They’re -” Dean began, about to compliment the tattoos, but Cas cut him off.

“They aren’t for show,” he said. Dean frowned - but Cas didn’t seem angry at him for looking. Only, perhaps, a little embarrassed; and as he realised that, Dean thought that maybe he understood. _They aren’t for show. I didn’t get them to show them off. These are for me._

Dean’s eyes drifted to Cas’ chest. The tree was solid, the watercolours gentle and artfully done. Part of Dean was surprised; now that he thought about it, he could easily see Cas with luridly coloured tattoos of skulls and flowers, hidden under that tan trenchcoat without a single crap given for cliché or other people’s opinions. But this was reserved, artistic.

Not for show. Not even a show for Castiel himself, no played-out lack of fucks to give. This was just… sincere. Honest.

The moon, too, had words written inside it, Dean saw. He glanced up at Cas’ face, to check that he wasn’t overstepping the line as he moved a little closer. Cas’ expression didn’t shift, save for a slight surprised softening around his eyes.

Dean looked down inside the moon, right over Cas’ heart - and felt his own chest thud painfully at the words written inside.

_Don’t ever change._

He drew in a breath, and stepped back again.

Cas reached up a hand, and touched it to the words - Dean wasn’t sure whether he was trying to hide them, or soothe them. He could feel his world shifting beneath his feet. His own words - throwaway words, spilled out on a cold night in the middle of nowhere - tattooed over Cas’ heart.

 

 

“It bothered me,” said Cas softly. “You asked me never to change… it’s impossible. Change is inevitable.”

Dean felt as though he’d forgotten how to breathe, exactly. He couldn’t look Cas in the eye.

“But - the moon waxes and wanes, but it is always the moon. Perhaps, remembering that, it would be possible to… change, without changing. Be a different me, but still be the me you asked me to be.”

“That’s important enough to you, to…” Dean gestured a hand towards Cas’ tattoos, and then pulled it back before it could get any ideas.

“That’s important enough.”

Cas was looking down at his chest, again. The words were muttered, embarrassed. Dean cleared his throat, and tried to be kind.

“Orange,” he said. Cas looked up at him, his head tilting to one side, not understanding. “Orange for me. You be rose.” He made a conscious effort to keep his eyes from flicking back to the rose on Cas’ arm. It was so beautifully done. He wanted to _touch_ it, he was reminded insistently by his body.

Cas nodded, and offered him a small almost-smile, and closed the door to the bathroom.

Dean pressed his hands to the doorframe, and his forehead to the door itself. The moment felt sawn-off, cauterised. In his mind, he watched Cas drop the towel. Watched him climb back into the shower, watched him soap his skin with rose - the skin that was marked with Dean’s own words.

He ached for several long seconds, and then turned away. He grabbed for his bag of clothes, trying to cage his mind in a task - stop it running back to thoughts of Cas.

There was no point in having feelings for Cas - that’s what he’d always told himself. No point in torturing himself by liking him in that way. Angels weren’t built for feelings like that, and even if they were - of all beings, why would Cas choose a hell-marked, dirty, sarcastic asshole to fall for? There was no chance.

And so nothing had _started._ No feelings, nothing. During these past couple of weeks with Sam out of action, they’d just gone about their business as usual - hunting together, getting into scrapes and getting out of them. Driving. Making stops. It was all so simple.

But now Dean had Sam on his phone being unsurprised that they were going to a fancy restaurant together, and Cas with tattoos on his chest that weren’t for show, and it was making Dean - making Dean feel - as though tonight could be -

He shook his head, trying to snap out of it.

They were just going to get food. It was smart to pre-book a table because restaurants got busy sometimes. It was just a _stop_.

As he laid out fresh clothes, Dean realised that even still, through all of that, neither of them had said _I._ It was habit, now - it was a word they didn’t use. Something real, that they both never said.

***

The restaurant wasn’t _fancy_ fancy, but it was definitely a little fancy. Cas didn’t look out of place in his suit, but Dean felt too rugged in his jeans and big boots. He hadn’t packed with a - a _stop_ in mind.

The room was spacious, and their table was tucked into a quiet corner; they had privacy as they ordered a couple of beers and their food. Cas asked for a plate of _spaghetti all’amatriciana,_ his accent flawless _._ Dean asked for - the same. They shared a smile, and Cas rolled his eyes.

“So,” Dean said. “When did you get them done?”

He hadn’t been able to keep his mind off the tattoos, not for longer than ten seconds at a stretch. Cas didn’t look uncomfortable with them being brought up again, though.

“Gradually, over the past few years,” he said. “It helps me to feel… settled… in my body.”

Dean nodded; he got that. It was easy for him to think of Cas’ shape as normal, but for a cosmic entity to be cooped up in a plain little vessel - it had to be strange.

“Well, they look great,” he said. His throat was tight. Cas’ smile of appreciation at the compliment flipped his heart in his chest. Dean was so full of feelings that it was as though he were about to spill all over the table like a knocked glass of water. It was impossible - this facade, this never-changing silence, it was too hard to keep up.

Still, he gave it his best shot.

“Weather’s been nice,” he said.

Cas raised an eyebrow at him, and agreed.

They sat in silence.

Dean couldn’t look at Cas without seeing him half-naked, without wishing his hands were on Cas’ hips, his chest - without wanting to say things to him, things that weren’t allowed, things that weren’t supposed to have names to them at all. His mind was an unstoppable litany of wants and wishes and words that were supposed to be buried.

He took a sip of his beer. The candle on the table flickered.

They ate their food and talked about little things - the hunt they’d just finished, the next case they might take, the fact that Sam needed milk. It was pleasant, but not relaxed, like usual - it was skating on ice, or walking on a tightrope taut as a bowstring. The meal was delicious, though Dean barely tasted it. He was full after three mouthfuls.

When they’d paid, it was a relief to walk out into the cool night air.

They paused for a moment on the sidewalk, a definite sensation between them of something going on. It was quiet - Dean had booked their table for late. He wasn’t ready for the night to end - to go back to the motel and fall asleep. He wanted to be here, precisely here - outside, under the stars. Leaning back against the wall of the restaurant. Next to Cas.

And Cas said, his voice hesitant,

“That - was that - the dinner, was it - was it a -”

He stopped, not seeming to know how to phrase his question.

Dean said,

“Maybe?”

Cas nodded. They fell quiet again.

There was so much that they couldn’t say. So many barriers that they’d made up for themselves and now had to live with, through habit, through fear. There was so much that wouldn’t change.

Dean frowned.

So much that _could_ change. Or maybe even - so much that had always been the same. Like the moon; changing, but always the same.

“Maybe they _all_ have been,” he said out loud. Cas turned to look at him, his head on one side.

“All have been?”

“Dates,” Dean said, and it was spoken aloud. The word dropped into the night like a stone rippling into still water.

“All the - stops?” Cas asked carefully. Dean lifted his shoulder.

“Maybe?” he said. He felt reckless, emboldened by the fact that the mood between the two of them hadn’t iced or broken; they still felt like a pair, leaning against the wall. “Well - when we - you know - do you think about it, like…”

“Like?”

“Like, what does it - like, mean? When we stop?” Dean knocked his head back against the wall, frustrated at his own inarticulate cowardice. “To you?”

“It means - a lot,” Cas said slowly. “It means we’re together. It’s good.”

“Would you do it with anyone else?”

Cas squinted at him.

“Not just, like, eat at a restaurant. Obviously.” Dean swallowed. “Like… would you do it the same way with someone else? Would it mean… the same?”

After a pause, Cas said, “No.”

Dean let that one sit in silence for a long moment.

“Cas,” he said eventually. “Have we - have we been - dating?”

Cas turned to look at him, and this time Dean met his eyes. His hands ached to touch Cas, his heart ached to be known, his mouth ached to speak. After all the years together, after so long keeping it hidden, there were a thousand things he wanted to say.

“Cas,” he said. “Cas, I -”

He stopped.

And there it was. The forbidden word. Spoken, for the first time in so long.

Cas’ hand reached out - and slowly, slowly, took hold of Dean’s. Dean looked down, and then back up to Cas, whose mouth was serious - but he was smiling with his eyes; he looked hopeful, brighter than a star.

“I… too,” Cas said.

With his free hand, Dean reached up and pressed his fingertips to Cas’ cheek. He felt his heart quake with it, the resonance of the moment.

And it wasn’t nearly enough. Standing up straight, he turned so that he was in front of Cas. One hand still gripping Cas’, he rested the other against the wall, and leaned in. Cas turned his face up to meet him, eyes on Dean’s, wide and knowing and unknowing, all at the same time.

Their lips met, softly - tender with each other, but achingly so, the intensity of feeling enough to tear them both in two. Or, perhaps, make the two of them one.

It had just been a stop. But when Dean pulled away to look into Cas’ eyes - it felt a lot more like a start.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the incredibly beautiful art that Elena did [here on tumblr](https://purgatory-jar.tumblr.com/post/172632031382/art-i-did-for-em-aka-whelvenwings-for-the-mid)!!


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